


The Making of Draco Malfoy: Love, War, & Marzipan

by bionically



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Kyodreams Fests' Dramione In Another Life 2018, Napoleonic Wars, Oblivious Ron Weasley, POV Draco Malfoy, Pining Viktor Krum, Redeeming Draco Malfoy, Regency Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-06 23:18:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17949074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bionically/pseuds/bionically
Summary: Meet the Honourable Mr. Draco Malfoy, rich, entitled, and bored, and the adventures that just might turn him into a reluctant hero. Regency England AU featuring the Napoleonic Wars.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:**  
>     
> Regency AU: The Malfoys have enjoyed respect and prestige for many generations. The Grangers are new to wealth, attending to the Mad King’s health and paid handsomely for it.
> 
> Author's Notes: 
> 
> This fest and all the prompts were amazing. Endless kudos to the mods who made this happen.
> 
> Thanks to feedback from mojojojoiamhe and jamethiel in helping me flesh out this story. 
> 
> All extraneous characters (Wellington, Henry Brougham, Lady Sefton, Lord Castlereagh) are historical figures who existed in real life. There was in fact a strange fog that rolled in the December of 1813, and this was the last cold winter wherein all the rivers froze over. I didn't do nearly enough justice to the cold in my story. Napoleon Bonaparte was indeed one of the greatest military leaders in history and his first defeat was that the Battle of the Nations was his first incomplete victory (imagine that as your first defeat!).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein someone stands on someone else's doorstep in the darkness.

_June 1814_

 

There was a figure standing on the doorstep late in the evening. It was so late, in fact, that it was early.

 

Even though it was June, it was still unseasonably cold and wet, as though winter had never left. Even the most parsimonious of misers had begrudgingly called for fires to be lit. Following the harshest winter seen in the last two decades, many believed that it was the doing of Napoleon, whose tales had long been superstitiously whispered in the darkness of night.

 

All was in a state of damp stillness after the earlier rain. During the day, it had been difficult to see down the street from the torrential downpour, but now, with the lamplighters not having made their rounds, it was impossible to see very far. Many had opted to stay indoors.

 

When the figure removed his beaver- brimmed hat to rake back his hair, the meager light bouncing off the wet ground momentarily revealed a bright head of pearly-blond that no one saw. The tall, lean man had traversed the streets with much care, because in his coat pocket was an oilskin packet that held state secrets of paramount importance. He had obtained them after much improvisation and now, after the same painstaking deliberation, he was standing here, waiting.

 

If he had gone to another residence this night, the outcome on the continent might have been very different-- for although Napoleon was now ensconced on an island, there were rumours of his unstoppable ambition…

 

The blond man was all too aware of the possible consequences of his actions, and there was a slight tremor in the hard line of his jaw as he waited for the door to open. There was just enough time now to turn back, if he wanted to change his mind.

 

The door opened, and a face peered out before focusing on him.

 

Without a word, Draco Malfoy stepped through.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the beginning, there was only the marzipan.

_November 1813_

 

It all started with the marzipan.

 

There had been a long dinner at the Parkinsons’ that evening. An elaborate spread was presented, complete with towering platters of roast lamb, venison, and various other poultry, along with vegetable ragout and endless jellied roots in continuous rotation for more than three hours. There had been no less than six removes per course, since Mrs. Parkinson considered that with a large party of ten, food must continue to arrive from the kitchens until at least one person had dropped under the table from excess.

 

Unfortunately, the Honourable Mr. Draco Malfoy only lived for desserts.

 

Mrs. Parkinson was quite niggardly with the sweets. Although her table boasted no end of game meats and seafood and even fruit compotes, there was no blancmange a la vanilla to round out the evening. There was no iced pudding to soothe the parched throat. There was no peach trifle or even a towering salver containing a cake a la Parisienne.

 

She did have a grand centerpiece made of marzipan and frosting. The entire sculpture was no less than two feet wide and three feet across, and featured “The Defeat of Napoleon at Leipzig.” There was an astoundingly detailed marzipan-formed city hall, that stood inaccurately next to the Church of St. Thomas, which rose to an impressive two feet above the tabletop. On all sides, there were masses of marzipan figures—wearing blue, red, green uniforms.

 

The entire time Mrs. Parkinson spoke of the celebration of the end of the war on the Continent and the return of our “poor, beleaguered soldiers,” Draco’s eyes had been fastened on the centerpiece, his mouth watering.

 

It was not to be.

 

The centerpiece was removed from the table by two hired chefs and placed on one of the tables then cordoned off by footmen. Mrs. Parkinson was _not_ in the habit of allowing her centerpieces to be eaten.

 

Draco had importuned his hostess.

 

“My dear Mr. Malfoy,” the stout matron had replied, fastening beady eyes on him. “How are your dear parents? I have not seen them in Town this age.”

 

That was followed up with a rambling monologue on how long the Malfoys and Parkinsons had known each other, and fast on the heels of that was how well Draco and Pansy Parkinson danced together at the Bulstrode's ball for the come-out of their daughter. Then, before Draco had even gotten two words in, Mrs. Parkinson had adjured him to “only see what a beauty Pansy has become” and that he should make haste, lest fair maiden get away.

 

After that, Mrs. Parkinson considered herself well and truly warmed up to her subject of choice. She started to discuss expectations; specifically how Draco's father and Pansy's grandfather had discussed cradle betrothals, and how one mustn't tempt luck by refusing to do one's duty and how poor Pansy was simply waiting for him to make a declaration—

 

There was more, but Draco had beat a fast retreat.

 

In fact, he had gotten out of there by pretending to visit the outhouse, and he had simply kept on walking. His coachman would catch on. Probably.

 

Without thinking, his feet took him unerringly towards the East End, where he had visited a very good confectioners that week. He was craving sweets more than even he thought.

 

London that year was impossibly cold, and now, his cheeks felt chafed by the chill.  Only the thought of his teeth sinking down through the chewy exterior of a fancy decorated treat propelled him ever forward.

 

With a sigh of relief, Draco saw the telltale shingle of the confectionary. The bright yellow pineapple nestled between an apothecary and a very minor printshop running some badly rendered caricatures.

 

This shabby-looking but scrupulously clean confectionary was the only tea shop to be open in the early hours of the morning. Gunter’s or The Pot and the Honey, with their far more fashionable addresses, did not open their shutters until noon. Or rather, it was the only shop open at this hour to have passed Draco's high standards. Some very enticing scents were emanating from the back and Draco's mouth watered accordingly.

 

He settled himself into one of the tables with a sigh of relief and looked about expectantly. There was only one other table that was occupied; from his quick once-over, he surmised the two men talking in low, urgent tones to be connected to the printshop next door. No one else was currently in the process of being served.

 

“Server!” Draco called, and frowned all around when there did not seem to be even one person to heed his inquiry. It was inducing him to criminal thoughts for him to be bathed in the hypnotic aroma of baked goods and not be able to partake of any.

 

The shop was run by a collection of three spinsters and all three were currently congregated around a fourth. Instead of serving at the front, they were all scurrying about the back of the tea shop, wrapping any number of white boxes.

 

“Be right with you, sir!” came the rushed voice of one of the serving maids.

 

Draco impatiently drummed his fingertips on the table. He had passed St. James’ Park upon his sojourn from Mayfair, and now his throat was as bone dry as a grave. Seeing the lines for the cows to be milked in the early hours of the morning had given him a thirst for some new milk to go along with his marzipan breakfast. This shop was not accommodating either of those desires. Surely, one little maid could be spared to inquire as to his comfort? He lurched to his feet and made his way to the quartet.

 

“This is vastly shoddy service,” he felt obliged to observe in as even a tone as he could possibly manage. It surprised even him that nothing sounded slurred. But even in his slightly inebriated state, the fact that no one was attending to his needs seemed odd indeed. Did no one in here understand the meaning of service? He felt too dazed by hunger to bother being polite. “Have you women no care for paying customers?”

 

One of the women barely spared him a glance before snapping out, “Do give us a minute, sir.”

 

At this point, Draco’s alcoholic haze started to disperse and he gazed at what was before him in bemusement. The women were not busy setting delicious pastries and cakes on display—they were engaged in packaging up all of the marzipan concoctions from the windows.

 

“Those horse figurines are lovely, Hannah,” the snappish woman said in a surprisingly non-snappish tone. “The children would love that.”

 

And gone went the very last marzipan creation into a white box to be topped with a profusion of red ribbons. Draco put a hand out to halt it from disappearing under a cloud of scarlet. “Wait! That was the last marzipan—”

 

“We still have plenty of other sweetmeats, sir,” said one of the maids he recognized in a soft voice. “Sugar plums and currant pudding and Shrewsbury cakes, sir, if that be your fancy.”

 

Draco gripped the box the maid was attempting to ease out from under his fingers. “I should like to know why this woman is buying up all the marzipan confections. Surely her brood is not so gargantuan as all that.” Hunger and a claret-induced dry mouth was giving rein to Draco’s usually far more circumspect tongue. In the normal scheme of things, Draco attempted charm before he resorted to insults.

 

There was a sharp inhalation of air, and the three proprietors busied themselves looking anywhere but at Draco. The fourth woman did not. “I beg your pardon, sir! My _brood_ is assuredly none of your affair.” Draco was obliged to look full on her face.

 

A very small woman glared at him with flashing eyes that spelled him harm. A very ordinary looking face—one he would not be able to pick out of a crowd of harridans in Haymarket—was topped by a horrific array of hair that looked like a curling iron gone wrong. A similarly unattractive bonnet lay on the counter next to her.

 

He dismissed her entirely from his mind and turned a charming smile on the proprietors. “My dear proprietress, I’ve a yearning for marzipan such as the kind only your shop can create. Surely you can spare a few cakes from this—stash?” He tapped a gloved fingertip on one of the boxes suggestively. At a glance, they looked to number upwards of twenty. What a greedy wench the woman was.

 

One of the proprietors blinked at him with wide eyes and glanced sideways at the insolent female customer before saying in a soft voice, “Sir, our other customer has already paid for all the marzipan on display today. Perhaps tomorrow…” The owner looked appropriately distressed, with hands that looked on the verge of some wringing.

 

Tomorrow currently felt like a lifetime away; Draco had already spent a decade walking here from the West End in the coldest winter on record. “I can pay. Much more than she can afford.” The words tumbled out of his mouth. All he wanted was _one_ —or maybe ten—of those marzipan figures, such as the ones that had taunted him all during the dinner. Surely, that wasn’t too much to ask?

 

Horrific Hair looked not in the least put out by his dismissal. “Ignore that very drunk man, Hannah. I’ve paid for all the marzipan, and I intend to cart them all out of here today.”

 

Draco blinked at her obstinance. “See here—”

 

“No, _you_ see here.” She stepped forward, bringing her two handbreadths away from him along with a tantalizing whiff of marzipan. The tops of her improbable hair did not reach but somewhere around his cravat, but she did not pause before stabbing a finger—ungloved, the improper girl—in the vicinity of the row of buttons on his greatcoat. “It might surprise you to know that I _can_ afford all the marzipan in this shop, and I’ve already paid for it.”

 

“That’s a bit...excessive,” Draco protested, not bothering to voice the fact that he had planned to sit in the little shop and gorge on marzipan until his stomach complained. “Have a care for your looks. Although they certainly can’t be further harmed.”

 

It must have been the hunger, Draco later decided, that made him be so uncommonly unchivalrous.

The marzipan-usuper’s lips were clamped into a thin line at his insult. “You are completely foxed, and I’ve no need to suffer the rudeness of a man who's decidedly _not_ a gentleman.”

 

His lips were thin as a knife. “You’re the one who’s no lady,” was his surprised and unwitty rejoinder. Furthermore, now he was miffed at her summary denouncement. He surveyed her narrowly and took in her apparel of a faded-looking pelisse that was distinctly unfashionable, with the dropped waist of an earlier era. It was buttoned over a frightfully small chest all the way up under a small chin. Despite its appalling lack of style, the fabric was very fine, and the hem was clear of any mud, which meant she had arrived by carriage. He frowned as he surveyed her in confusion, taking in her age, which seemed barely out of the schoolroom. “You’re awfully young to have borne a litter of brats.”

 

She gave him an impatient look from eyes sparkling from their altercation. “Even if it were your business—which it is not—I’ll have you know that these children are _not_ brats. They have simply been stymied by circumstance and deserve a treat on All Souls Eve.”

 

Draco himself remembered All Souls in his childhood with great affection. As the only son and heir to the esteemed Lord Lucius Malfoy of Malfoy Hall in Wiltshire, with hunting boxes in Yorkshire and Dorchester, and the townhouse occupying an enviable spot in Grosvenor Square as well as numerous other rental properties, Draco had never known a holiday without accepting as many as twenty boxes. Even when the local children went begging up at Malfoy Hall for soul cakes, Draco was confident of receiving the best and biggest of cakes. Which was why his All Souls Eve going without a marzipan cake was starting to be a crime of the first order. “And why are these particular br—that is, children, so hampered?”

 

“They have been cruelly abandoned by their parents and the authorities, sir, and depend on the charity and goodwill of others to see to extras like treats.” This speech was delivered in pious tones that made him want to strike his own forehead in irritation.

 

He refrained with some difficulty and puzzled over her words for a moment before exclaiming, “Good God, woman, you are speaking of foundlings!”

 

She gave him a hard stare at his incredulous expression. “They are _orphans_. 'Tis said, ‘it is more blessed to give than to receive.’”

“Too right. And so shall you be blessed an you give me one of those marzipan houses. Such excess for a foundling will ruin him for his station forever.” Perhaps he could appeal to her religious fervor. After all, who put them in their stations but the Lord Himself?

 

“That is just the sort of view I expect from one of your sort, you—you—fop.” The marzipan-usurper looked disgusted with his logic.

 

Draco felt his stomach give an unseemly rumble. “If that was meant as an insult, you have failed utterly. Give over, do. In fact, I shall open my purse strings and _give_ you a pouch of guineas in exchange for just one of those marzipan cakes. Undoubtedly, it shall do your like a world of good what with your—er—charitable tendencies. Buy yourself a better bonnet as well.” At this point, even the wilted silk flowers on her decrepit bonnet was starting to look rather tasty to him.

 

“No, it _shan’t_. I promised those children marzipan, as they have never had the like, and probably never shall again, and marzipan they shall get. Now, please let me pass.”

 

He was almost amused by how her eyes were flashing and her small bosom was rising and falling at great speed. She seemed on the verge of stomping her little slippered foot. But he was exceedingly hungry and parched and this chit stood in between him and his breakfast. He didn't bother to move aside.

 

“Proprietress,” Draco called over the head of horrific hair. “My offer extends to you as well. Divest this woman of her purchases and spare me a cake, and there’s five guineas in it for you.”

 

It was an insanely excessive offer for a piece of marzipan, which also demonstrated his current state of desperation.

 

The marzipan-usurper gasped in annoyance and whipped away from him to speak to the proprietor, who stood gape-mouthed at having to deal with a conflict not flour-related. “Just look at him. He’s swaying on his feet and not in his right mind. Nobody would believe in his generosity. Undoubtedly, he will have the authorities on you for robbing him on the morrow.”

 

Thoroughly irritated and still without a drop of milk or marzipan on his tongue, Draco had had enough. “This has gone on far enough. Madame, you are the boldest harridan I have encountered this age, and if your ilk continues to frequent this establishment, this bodes poorly for its clientele indeed. A word here and a word there, and it shall find itself out of favor with every notable house in the _ton_.” He smiled in a winsome way to cover up the malice in his words. “I bid you all good day.”

 

From behind him, there was a gratifying sound of silence that met his threat, and he smiled in satisfaction to himself. Unfortunately, his complacency did not last long. Soon, there were muffled giggles as he walked away, though he chose to rise above that indignity as befitted his status.

 

When he got home, however, it was to find that the indignity was more than he could countenance—he had a liberal dusting of flour on the seat of his greatcoat.

 

* * *

 

 

Draco could just about erase the memory of that humiliating episode out of his mind had it not been quickly followed up by a second.

 

On most mornings, Draco could be found riding hell for leather through the deserted grounds of Hyde Park at the unfashionable hour of seven in the morning. Not ten minutes into this exhilarating run, he was brought up short by a loud shriek and a litany of barking. Dogs were to remain leashed within the park, but two had escaped and appeared to have gone mad. Draco's roan reared up at the uncommon commotion and he was almost thrown clear in what could have been a very nasty fall.

 

He brought the horse down into a walk and dismounted, calming his agitated horse and blowing into his nostrils until its equine eyes had stopped rolling. Then Draco turned to survey the scene.

 

Two dogs were trailing leashes, barking at nothing. He took ahold of the leashes and cast an expert eye over them. It appeared that these two dogs, despite their breeds as hunting dogs, were not trained to hunt in gun range, given their tendency to be startled. Nor were their dispositions likely to predispose them to the art. Both were baying a twig on the ground. Draco walked his horse alongside the two dogs in hopes of finding the irresponsible owner.

 

At a break in the trees, he heard a woman's voice, murmuring nonsensical things in a cajoling tone of voice as though to a pet. “Come here, Perce, come here, boy, that's a good boy. Yes, you are a good boy, aren't you—”

 

Draco was so busy frowning over this nonsensical speech that he was almost upon the woman without noticing her. Good God, he could have been killed by such a fall! Trust a woman to make a pet of hunting dogs and to let them off their leash in the park where they were liable to run helter-skelter over all and sundry.

 

“Oh, thank you, sir!” the woman exclaimed, and rushed into a rambling explanation: “I'm so sorry, these dogs are unused to the leash. They're _very_ good dogs, only high-spirited, you see—”

 

He cut her off with an impatient gesture of his hand. “Have you any idea how dangerous these dogs were, running loose in the park? Do you know the penalty for such license?”

 

“Did they cause your horse to throw— _You!_ ”

 

Draco was immersed in adjusting his beaver-brimmed hat when her exclamation caused him to jerk up his chin. With a start, he realised he was now looking at his nemesis of the marzipan shop. He stifled a scowl—did nothing good happen of an early morning? Apparently not, going by his recent experiences.

 

“Unhand my dogs at once, sirrah,” she said, drawing herself up to her full height of a diminutive elf. 

 

He couldn't help but smirk at her. Now who was making demands? Draco took his time examining her, finding that she wasn't quite as heinous as memory supplied. His recollection had painted the proportions of a she-bear, with gigantic fangs, unruly mane, and a monstrous mien. He was almost amused to find someone so innocuous-looking and somewhat fetching—but that was only because he had expected a beast of a woman.

 

He stood back and smirked at her, fully enjoying having in hand something of hers. “Or what? Or your canine protectors shall rip into my carcass? They're chasing their tails.”

 

Both he and the girl looked in unison towards the ground beside him. The two dogs held in leash by Draco were indeed running in circles with one another. At a glance, no amount of training would manage to make good hunters of the two. They really should have been culled from the pack.

 

Draco glanced back at the girl. “Fearsome indeed.”

 

The girl flushed at the glint of amusement in his eyes, very much at her expense. “I do not need their protection, being quite capable of defending myself.” She gave a very disdainful sniff and wrinkled her nose at him as though he reeked—he, when he utilised only the finest and costliest perfumes.

 

It was such a supercilious sound that Draco again marveled at her self-possession. Certainly Pansy Parkinson was very proud and disdainful, but she came armoured with her connections, her dowry, and her high expectations, not to mention a completely new wardrobe every Season.

 

Draco himself understood the strength of sartorial defenses. Not for anything did he spend hours in his toilette perfecting his cravat and being barbered to perfection by his valet. He seldom met people, much less women, who were assured of their own status without outfitting themselves accordingly and loudly proclaiming their background should it be unknown.

 

He found her difference jarring indeed.

 

Draco did not need to be vain to know what his mirror and every person of note in London thought: he was a vastly handsome young man with broad shoulders that needed no padding and a tall, athletic frame that required no corseting. Most of all, he was possessed of an enviably Grecian profile and was regularly likened to Apollo for his white-blond hair and clear grey eyes. He would not admit it, but it piqued his vanity to find that she was neither cowed nor impressed with his appearance. He took comfort behind legality instead. “As I understand it, loose animals are to be turned over to the watch immediately.”

 

“They _are_ leashed!” She looked ready to fight, which made her a truly ridiculous picture, surrounded as she was by a pack of no less than six sizeable dogs, all determined to pull her in different directions. There were even two muddy pawprints on the front of her double-breasted pelisse, a different one from the day before and every bit as hideous.

 

The baying of the hounds was also going to drive him mad.

 

“For heaven's sake. Heel!” he snapped in a firm voice to the dogs beside her feet. Only half of them sat down to pant at him. He shook his head in incredulity. “Where on earth did you come by so many dogs?”

 

“They were abandoned by their owners. I found some dastardly person had attempted to drown them in the Thames and left them to freeze instead of finishing the job.”

 

His exasperation now knew no bounds. To think his life was put in jeopardy by this foolhardy woman and that now his horse was liable to catch a chill because he had to educate a woman on the subject of animal husbandry. She really was the most exasperating female he had come across in his lifetime. “Drowning them is the most humane thing for them. An untrained dog is no good to anyone, especially here in the city, where they will breed like mad and hound every passerby. Did you plan to make pets of them all?”

 

“Not _all_. I'll find homes for them, of course.”

 

“Where? With your foundlings, I suppose?” That was just what was needed for the downtrodden, to be beset by untrained hounds. There was a sharp pain throbbing behind one eye, undoubtedly attributable to this chit. He rubbed at it with the heel of one gloved hand.

 

“Of course not! With…with other societal ladies, of course.”

 

“Yes, because ladies of the _ton_ are so very interested in having a giant, slavering hound as a lap dog.”

 

Her eyes narrowed at his tone and she snapped her fingers at the two dogs at his feet. “Perce! Charlie! Here!”

 

Draco raised his brows as the two continued to circle his legs. “Excellent command of your pets.”

 

“My dogs are none of your concern.” She was flushed with exertion as she pulled ineffectually on her other leashes forward to fetch the two beside Draco.

 

He held their leashes up out of her reach. “They nearly caused my horse to throw me. What have you to say to such grievance?”

 

She reached up for the leashes. “You would have been thrown ere I crossed your path. The drunk should have a care when wandering about."

 

There it was again, that throbbing pain behind his left eye. Draco only just managed to grit his teeth on a loud denial as to his intoxication.

 

She had drawn so close that he could see the wisps of hair that were under her bonnet. She had been hatless the other day, her dark hair piled up on top of her head like a mountain. Idly, he wondered how long her hair was. She was so small that it would dwarf her. He leaned away out of her reach just as she made a grab for the leashes. “Oh dear me, that must be the wine affecting my balance." He couldn't help a satisfied smirk at her bewildered expression.

 

“Oh, give it here, you rude man!” She was on the verge of stomping her feet when she couldn't take the leashes from him without coming improperly close.

 

He wondered if she were close to tears. It would be glorious payback for her effrontery in the confectionery the other day. Draco had returned home in a towering rage, pacified only by a steaming pot of hot chocolate and fresh fruit for his ravenous appetite, followed by a short kip. Upon waking, he had decided to magnanimously put the whole event behind him as it was unlikely he would come upon her again.

 

But here she was again, irritatingly obstinate and also completely alone. And now, standing so close to her, he suddenly could catch a whiff of marzipan emanating from her slight figure, and it reminded him that he _still_ had yet to taste a marzipan confection. It was enough justification for giving in to a bit of caddish behavior. He smirked and continued holding the leads above his head. “Why, I'm only following your lead by not giving in when asked politely.”

 

He was anticipating another sharp retort. He didn’t expect the sharp kick in the shins she rendered him. When he jerked in surprise, she jumped up and yanked the lines out of his lowered hand. It must have hurt her slippered feet more than his Hessian-covered calves, which was the only consolation he had over the course of their two encounters.

 

“You're no more polite than your horse,” she threw at him from over her shoulder as she walked briskly away. “And he's trying to bite his flank!”

 

The only thing which he could congratulate himself in this latest contretemps was that she was the one running away, not him.

 

It was not comforting in the least.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco Malfoy is much diverted.

Draco was now two for zero, which were very terrible odds. If this were in the betting books at White's, he would not wager on himself, and that was a sad state of affairs.

Setting a Bow Street Runner on the little marzipan minx would have been excessive in anywhere but London, where profligacy was king. And so Draco bid the detective come in while he partook of his breakfast tea.

“The daughter is twenty-three years of age. Almost engaged to a naval captain by the name of Ronald Weasley, but banns were never read before he shipped out. The family owns several prosperous textile mills and pottery kilns in Manchester. They've only just arrived in London in the middle of the Season. Seems that Mr. Granger didn't know when the Season started, but they've applied for vouchers to Almack's—”

Draco paused over his tea to consider this news. “They think to debut her at Almack’s? The fools. What hope have they when the patronesses turn even nobility away?”

“On account of Castlereagh's connections with Patronesses Lieven and Esterházy, the ambassadors’ wives, as well as his own wife.”

Draco puzzled over this long after the Runner left his townhouse. For the Foreign Secretary and Peer, Lord Castlereagh, to be paving her way through London, especially the highest realm of respectability save for the Queen’s own chamber, was strange indeed.

The investigator all but confirmed what he had expected when none of his casual inquiries had uncovered her identity—Miss Hermione Granger was not of his world or status. Now the incongruent things about her started to make much more sense. She was not a country girl, else she would have been far more practical about the culling of animals. She was of the do-gooding sect, and actively so, which he now attributed to her startling middle-class background. Trade! This bit of news was more delicious than he had bargained for. It was so despicably low.

Many byblows of the aristocracy were regularly cast off on some middle-classed family to raise. Draco idly wondered if this was the case with one Miss Hermione Granger. It certainly explained to a nicety Castlereagh's unforeseen generosity toward her. If that was the case, then their respective circumstances gave him license to do as he willed. How lovely.

On the other hand, his own obsession over her was slightly vexing.

There was nothing special about her and the two encounters were not what one would deem favourable for either of them. Further, Draco could name scores of women who were more prepossessing by far. Debutantes by the dozen had crossed his path, and yet he could not differentiate a one of them from the next. High-priced Cyprians, such as the kind his more lascivious compatriots favored, did not appeal to him. It was strange that it would be this odd, little common being would make his senses stir. She was turning into an itch under his skin that he had to scratch. Draco could only surmise that the novelty of the encounters were what had piqued his interest.

Then, there was the fact that his own theories about her background were too delicious to be ignored. If proven correct, knowledge of Castlereagh’s byblow would be excellent surety, especially in these political times. Talk around town was already alluding to a continental congress, with Castlereagh taking the lead in discussion with the Russian tsar and the Prussian king. As for Miss Granger, if her background were discovered, she would be outed by the outraged matrons and have no recourse but to accept the lowest of occupations, that of a man’s mistress.

It was with this rosy theory that Draco sauntered abroad the next day. And it was with uncustomary glee that his eyes lit on her upon leaving his club with Theo.

“Now you're in for some sport.” Draco's lips tugged upward with the intention of dalliance with a girl who was no lady.

“What's amiss?” Theo asked absently, pulling on his gloves, only then glancing up mildly to do an immediate double-take. “Who is that goddess?” He stared in the same direction Draco gestured.

Draco frowned, unsure whether drunkenness had overcome his friend. Goddess was surely overdoing it. Furthermore, he didn’t want anyone beating him to the punch once the news of Castlereaugh’s byblow broke on the scene. “That on-the-shelf Plain Jane? I thought you were set on your Bluebell miss.”

Theo returned his frown. “Greengrass, Draco. Do you ever listen?”

Draco wasn't listening now. He was busy watching his quarry—for definitely it was she in that atrocious bonnet—entering the circulating library. The day was mild and warmer than the past week had been, undoubtedly the reason he was seeing her for the first time in a week.

He made to follow.

Theo had come to some conclusions of his own. “It's little wonder you are so entranced. I've never seen such Titian locks paired with such creamy skin.”

Draco froze in his tracks and turned to give his friend a bewildered look over his shoulder. “Titian? She doesn't have red hair.”

“Aha! So you admit there is a she!” crowed a triumphant Theo before frowning in confusion. “Then at whom were we gawking?”

Draco, upon seeing his quarry's attention fixed elsewhere, gestured in her direction with a wave of his quizzing glass. “There.”

Theo stared. “The little brown mouse?”

Draco’s last encounter with the brazen Miss Granger had been imprinted in his skull, and he was filled with the impression of rosy cheeks, big round eyes, and an overwhelming fragrance of marzipan. He had been laboring under the mistaken idea she was a very enchanting miss, no doubt because of the deceiving scent of sweetmeats.

Now, in the bright wintry sunlight of the afternoon, he saw that she was wearing that fright of a pelisse she had worn the first day, topped with an absolute atrocity of an overloaded bonnet that threatened to strangle her in a profusion of garish silk blooms. Whoever had the dressing of her deserved to be whipped and gaoled. In a thrice, Draco redressed her in his mind. Bright colors, he thought. And with that rosy and healthy hue, even white wouldn’t wash her out.

He realised Theo was still waiting for his response. “To whom were you referring?”

“The luscious redhead next to your brown wren.” Theo mildly raised his eyebrows as though Draco were demented for thinking otherwise.

“She! A veritable Long Meg,” Draco blurted out. “All gangly limbs—’twould be like bedding a circus freak.”

Theo gave him a peculiar look as his eyes slid back towards the redhead. “She's not as tall as that. And they're ladies, Draco. One doesn't bed one's proper wife; that's what mistresses are for.”

Draco had lost interest. “Make haste before they disappear from our sight.” He set off across the street, ignoring Theo's muttered comments about how he had never before been able to make Draco buy a subscription to the circulating library.

Draco paid his friend no heed. Ahead of them, there bobbed two bonnets, one overwhelmed with every color of the rainbow, the other decorated with tasteful silk flowers.

“Ronald will be home soon,” said the taller female from under the fashionable bonnet.

“I know what you're doing, Ginny, and if he wishes to apologise, he can speak for himself.”

A sigh. “He asked me to speak to you in his last letter. I couldn't say no. But now I have and that's the last of that.”

“He had leave, you know,” the smaller female replied. She ran her fingers over the spines of the books on the shelves at a furious pace. Draco did not for a moment think she was even heeding the titles. None of the women in his acquaintance even spelled correctly. “Besides, I'm much too busy to give it a moment's thought. I have my... writing to occupy me.”

Their words faded as Draco abruptly disappeared into the next row and sauntered into view ahead of them. “Scandalous words, are they?” he said.

They were visibly startled.

“You!” Miss Granger took a giant step back and bumped into her friend in the process.

Draco bowed low. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the quizzical cast of Theo’s expression. “So pleased to make your acquaintance again, Miss Granger.”

She stiffened, her eyes darting up to meet his. “How—” she started to say before cutting her own question off. “We have not been properly introduced. Pardon us.” She had not even the courtesy of giving him a half curtsey.

“A proper introduction is hardly necessary. Miss Granger.” He placed emphasis on her last name, if that even were hers.

Draco didn’t know what he expected. Perhaps for her to be abashed, embarrassed. Wide eyes. Possibly a proclamation of innocence. Instead, she looked incensed, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I have not given you leave to address me.” She drew herself up as tall as she could as he stepped forward.

“We hardly need proper introductions when we have already had the pleasure of meeting so frequently.” He smiled all around. Theo looked startled, then his eyes were shielded. Draco’s words made it seem as though they had had the most improper of assignations.

“Hermione?” Her friend sounded concerned. And then to Draco, the friend said, “Sir, my friend does not wish to know you. Kindly step aside.”

“Let her deny it if she so wishes. She is...so very well connected.” Draco was standing so close he could note that she came up to somewhere below his chin. The observation made his breath hitch in his chest.

The bookshelf behind Miss Granger rattled as her bonnet brushed against the row of books. “If this is about your apologies…”

His lips twitched. She was going to bow down to the inevitable. Twice now she had behaved like an utter hoyden and had refused to render him a pretty apology as protocol decreed. But now, cornered metaphorically and physically, she was going to bow to his superiority.

She suddenly smiled up at him, a smile that didn’t reach her eyes even as it revealed straight, white teeth. His breath came and went. She even leaned in tantalisingly close before saying in a lower voice, “Well, I dearly hope you enjoy waiting, for it shall be a long time coming.”

Draco rocked back on his heels. She gave no quarter, this one. Trademan’s daughter, possible byblow of an impossibly high-rising statesman and peer, she cared naught. He could almost applaud her gall, if it did not thwart his will so damned much.

“Ready for a mill, then?” His own voice was pitched low enough that he was certain not even Theo could hear him. A moment later, he realised he had used boxing cant; a lady would turn up her nose at his speech immediately.

She expelled a puff of air through her nose. It was a gesture that he was unaccustomed to seeing in ladies of society and yet was somehow apropos coming from her. “I can handle my fists.”

He should have known that she was no lady, to have such ready cant on her lips. A smile grew on his face. She would not admit it, but she enjoyed this as much as he was growing to do. He gave a small bow of his head and allowed her enough room to pass by. “Then I’ll see you around, Miss Granger. And may the best man win.”

She didn't say it, but he heard the silent rejoinder with every step of her departure: “or the best woman.”

And again, he realised that he had seldom been so diverted.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco Malfoy encounters both war and marzipan.

Draco despised Almack’s.

 

To him, it was an ordeal to be endured, much like a birching from his father after being sent down from Cambridge. There was nothing pleasant about the venue, despite the addition of Neil Gow’s band. The fare was considered paltry at best, and not a drop of liquor was to be had anywhere within the premises.

 

It was a place Draco had frequented whenever his mother occasionally acted as one of the Patronesses. It was an exceedingly exclusive place and nothing so much like Tattersall’s for the marriage-minded. As for Draco, he much preferred the horse auctioneer by far.

 

This Wednesday, Draco acquiesced to accompanying Theo so that his friend could dance the requisite two sets with the debutante of his choice. Never mind that Draco had not attended the assembly rooms in the past three years. As long as Theo did not know, Draco could pretend with the best of them that his hired Runner hadn’t informed him of a certain Miss Hermione Granger’s attendance that evening. The thick fog that had overtaken London during the night prevented the two of them from chatting as they traversed the distance from Draco’s townhouse to the assembly rooms.

 

Nothing about his obsession made sense to him. There was no possibility of his marrying her. As the only son and heir of the Baron Malfoy, whose title dated as far back as the Conquest, he had a duty to marry title, property, and money. It was how it had always been done and how all three had so scrupulously remained within their family’s domain. Hermione Granger may have had money through her so-called family; she may have had birthright through her father; she may even come into substantial property— unfortunately, she was also unerringly tainted with trade and scandal on all sides.

 

But of course marriage had not even occurred to him. Naturally not. Even had duty not compelled him, Draco had been drummed with familial teachings since birth.

 

That did not stop him from gazing around the rooms as soon as he was announced.

 

“Mr. Malfoy,” he was hailed and turned to face Mrs. Parkinson, who towed her daughter behind her. “A pretty figure you cut with my Pansy, dancing the cotillion at the Pucey’s ball. La, but do honor these people in attendance with a repeat performance!”

 

Draco still had not forgotten that it was Mrs. Parkinson who had led him to his repeated confrontations with Miss Granger, but he acquiesced and signed Pansy's dance card nonetheless, because he had known her for such a very long time that their eventual alliance was all but assured. At the very least, Pansy could be counted on to provide the latest gossip. Kind and self-sacrificing she was not, but neither was she a tedious dullard.

 

“We are blessed with so many new faces tonight,” Draco said to Pansy as they promenaded around the room before their set.

 

The Russian and Prussian delegation had landed in London at last. Tonight saw a few of their foreign visitors, some wearing dress uniforms and dress swords. Draco took the opportunity to scan the room. His face tightened when he saw the familiar face of his cousin and heir, Harry Potter.

 

“It’s all very exciting,” Pansy drawled in a tone as buoyant as though she were examining her shoe for dirt. “Only see our national heroes conversing with the foreign delegation. There’s your cousin, Mr. Potter, with the Prussian _aide-de-camp_.”

 

Draco recognised the Lieutenant-Colonel Viktor von Krum, the chief of staff to the Prussian general. He had been caricaturised in print for this past year for being the only stalwart soldier in the Prussian army, credited for the first incomplete defeat by Napoleon after the French’s retreat from Russia. About to make some inane observation, Draco froze as he saw a familiar brunette head in conversation with the men in uniform.

 

“And that’s the Cit that our brilliant Foreign Secretary has foisted on us.” Pansy's voice dripped with venom. “Only see how she cozies up to the war heroes. Hermione Granger, I’m told is her name. How utterly common.”

 

It was the opening set. Draco, of course, did his duty with Pansy. There was no question of him asking Miss Granger to dance. To request the first dance at Almack’s with a newly arrived debutante, no matter her advanced age, was tantamount to an offer. To do so with a girl of her background would soon spark rumours of the Malfoy’s dwindling coffers. Draco had no intention of contributing to the gossip mills.

 

Miss Granger looked, he observed, disturbingly close to his cousin.

 

“Draco, you’re trodding on my slippers.” Pansy’s muttered complaint cut through his thoughts.

 

And then he saw that she was curtseying to the Lieutenant-Colonel. Draco could not help but glare as he took in her apparel, which was so far removed from anything she had ever donned that it was small wonder he had overlooked her. She wore the regulation white for debutantes, with the only colors adorning her the silken periwinkle flowers woven through her curls and encircling her neck for all as though she were a woodland fairy. And although he knew her to be older by a handful of years than the other misses making their debut, no one could have known it from her bright-eyed and glowing appearance. The music brought her steps to a standstill and she smiled across at her dance partner, and Draco's breath caught in his throat.

 

He had been right then, that the color white would favor her as it so seldom favored English girls.

 

“I suppose she does have a very _common_ sort of prettiness, the type befitting these mohairs,” Pansy was saying, bringing him back into focus. She sounded begrudging, as though she had just admitted to a crime executed on behalf of the country. “Flowers, indeed. So utterly bourgeois.”

 

The dance ended. Draco escorted Pansy off the floor.

 

“Can you yet understand this?” Pansy asked him, fanning herself so hard he stepped away from the gale. “What leverage have the Grangers over Castlereaugh for him to so thoroughly endorse them like this? It is incomprehensible, but mark my words, ‘twould a delicious scandal if revealed.”

 

Draco only just kept himself from yawning. “Really, my dear, are we after a foreign title now? Have you an eye on one of our Russian princes while they're visiting? I daresay you wouldn't like living in Russia overmuch. The women are kept vastly more cloistered, you know.”

 

Pansy snapped her fan shut and sniffed haughtily. “Of course I don't have an eye out—you can be _such_ a scoundrel, Draco, and so I'll have you know! Would you like to meet her?” Pansy's sudden question startled Draco out of his ennui. Her eyes were gleaming with malice. “No one can cut a person down to size quite the way you can.”

 

Draco and Pansy soon were in front of the Patronesses as they were giving Miss Granger leave to dance the waltz.

 

Lady Sefton greeted them benignly. “Miss Parkinson, you are familiar with Miss Granger?”

 

“I am now.” Pansy smiled as though a quarry had just presented itself to her. “And how do you find London, Miss Granger? Very different from _mills_ , I suppose?”

 

Draco couldn't help an inward smirk. Trust Pansy to go for jugular. She was a right dasher, was Pansy.

 

He had reckoned without Miss Granger's sauce, however.

 

Miss Granger gave Pansy a very level look before saying, “Not at all. I find ballrooms to be vastly similar to mills. In particular, there are always a few ill-conceived pieces that do better after a thorough thrashing.”

 

Pansy had lost her smile. Draco did not. He found that watching someone else on the tail end of that impertinent tongue to be oddly riveting. He had not as yet found anyone to shut Pansy up, yet here was this slip of a thing doing her damnedest.

 

“I refer, of course,” Miss Granger said with an innocent smile, “to dyed cloth. Draperies and the like.”

 

Pansy stared down at the smaller girl with a cold expression of dislike. Her lips were stretched thin over her teeth. “I know exactly what you meant.”

 

Lady Sefton diplomatically cut across the fray. “Mr. Malfoy, would you like to show Miss Granger that English gentlemen far excel our neighbors in the traditional country dance?”

 

He bowed, hiding a smirk. “Certainly.”

 

Miss Granger’s panicked expression was quickly masked behind a polite smile. “You are all consideration, sir, but I’m afraid my flounce is torn. I must repair it at once.” She looked somewhere over his left shoulder rather than at his face.

 

Draco was tempted to inquire as to the exact placement of her ripped skirt. He would wager his entire quarterly that it was an excuse to be free of him. Instead, he stepped forward and offered his arm in a manner she could not refuse. “Allow me to escort you through this crush.”

 

Her eyes fluttered up to meet his. He realised breathlessly that she had done something special to her face tonight. Her lashes looked darker, her eyes larger, and her lips pink and inviting. For a moment, he lost his smirk as he stared at her.

 

Then she jerked her head in an approximation of acceptance and bowed her head down as she took his arm. She remained uncharacteristically silent as they maneuvered their way across the room to the ante-rooms. All too soon, they reached the anterooms and she detached her arm from his side quickly and disappeared through one of the doors.

 

For some reason Draco could not put to words, he stayed on the balcony near the anterooms, nursing a glass of tepid lemonade. He stared intermittently out into the foggy dimness of the streets, where he could only make out blurry flashes of streetlamps, and kept an eye on the ante-rooms.

 

As soon as he saw her figure reappear in the doorway, which was some fifteen minutes after she had gone in, he stepped out of the curtains and clasped a hand on her wrist, jerking her outside through the double doors.

 

“What—” was all she had time to gasp before she was whirled off her feet and standing before him. “Oh, you again!” She rolled her eyes and heaved a sigh. “What now, Mr. Malfoy? Are you foxed already?"

 

That was the second time she had accused him of being inebriated since the confectionary's. "There's not a drop of liquor in this entire place, I'll have you know."

 

"Then what grievance have you with me now? Have I trod on your feet somehow? Thieved your snuffbox?”

 

He was going to make a sharp rejoinder when he caught a glimpse of her face, and there was something shinier about the cast of her eyes that alarmed him and caused him to look closer. “You’ve been crying.”

 

“No!” she immediately denied, but gave lie to her words by looking anywhere but at him. “Something flew into my eyes.”

 

“That old faradiddle,” he scoffed. “Have my actions overset you so?” There was something mocking in his tone as he outwardly pretended to be gloating. Inwardly, he wondered just what he had done to discomfit her, when, from the beginning, she had never surrendered without a fight.

 

“What, do you consider us friends now?” She gave him an incredulous look and stepped as far back from him as his grip would allow. She looked around the balcony and then over her shoulder towards the assembly. “This is—very unseemly. Please let me return to the ballroom. This would be—compromising.”

 

“I must assure you that usually it is the man of higher rank who tries to avoid being compromised.”

 

“And I must assure _you_ that I cannot envision a worse fate than to be compromised by you,” she said, pulling hard against his grasp.

 

There was something in the sad, flat line of her lips that made his eyes narrow in sudden thought. “It is—your—It is your Ronald Weasley.” Draco was quickly connecting the dots from all the information the Runner had fed him. “He isn’t here tonight.”

 

“You—” She expelled a breath of air and her arm went limp. “If I tell you, will you _please_ let me be? Will this small humiliating concession mark us even?”

 

He cocked his head to the side and considered it. “Yes.” He dropped her hand and stared at her with raised eyebrows. “Continue.”

 

She swallowed hard and hugged herself. Like him, she seemed to find something fascinating about the fog outside. It was growing so thick that they seemed enveloped in their own little fuzzy world. “Yes, he’s not here. Are you satisfied? I’m twenty-three this year, and I had expected to be engaged to him for two years now. Is that humiliating enough for you?”

 

He didn’t move. Something simultaneously hard and jealous warred with an equal feeling of elation. He pressed both emotions aside. “What about Castlereagh? Is he your father?”

 

She whirled on him. “What!”

 

There was such a look of disbelief on her face that he opted for an air of breeziness. “It’s not so unusual in our world.”

 

“So far as I know, I have always been a Granger,” she said in a tight voice, holding her arms rigidly around her body. She sighed, looking tired and resigned. “And I look exceedingly like my grandmother at the same age.”

 

She was starting to shiver. He could see small bumps start to form on her exposed decolletage. He swallowed as he looked away, seeking for another thread of conversation—anything—to keep them secluded here. She was no illegitimate child. She was simply a very spirited, very appealing, and also very unsuitable young girl.

 

“I want to see you again,” he said abruptly. His fists were clenched at his side, an indication of the struggle within him. _Retract your bloody words_ , he thought. _What you're saying is tantamount to a declaration, you madman!_

 

But nothing came out as he waited for her response.

 

It was the third time that night she had turned a face of incredulity on him. Not a second later, it turned into suspicion and disgust as she processed his previous question. “No,” she said before walking towards the double doors.

 

Again, he halted her with a hand on her arm. “Not for—not for dalliance. For conversation.”

 

The look she turned on him was sad and a bit resigned. “As you’ve just said, it’s not possible for the likes of your kind. And not for me, either.”

 

It was really too cold to detain her. That was the reason he let her go.

 

After fifteen minutes, Draco sauntered back into the ballroom with every intention of leaving early. Pansy caught him as he was trying to escape. “Well? Was she not the most frightful female imaginable?”

 

Draco looked anywhere but in the direction of one petite dark-haired woman in a white dress with blue flowers in her hair. He gave Pansy what she wanted. “Yes. Simply frightful.”

 

And he fervently hoped that her sharp eyes hadn’t caught him reappearing from the same balcony as Miss Granger.

 

* * *

 

 

There was a surprise waiting for him when he got home that evening. All the servants had been dismissed for the evening and his father’s valet personally opened the door for him.

 

The Baron Malfoy had arrived in London and  was waiting in the library to see him.

 

Draco stiffened his spine and cracked his neck before making his way across the hall to the library. Despite his father’s apparent seclusion in the country, Lucius Malfoy had an endless supply of informants at his disposal. Many was the time Draco had set a wager on paper at White’s, only to receive a letter the next morning from his father demanding where his wits had gone. There was a pit of dread in Draco’s stomach as he wondered if his father had gotten a whiff of his latest obsession.

 

He would deny it to his dying day, Draco vowed. His father would never stand for that sort of alliance. No matter how wealthy the Grangers appeared to be, no matter how high they were flying now—and it seemed to be high indeed if even the Prince Regent were granting Mr. Granger audience—Lucius Malfoy would be dead and rolling in his grave before he countenanced this match. No, Draco had no doubt that his father, no stranger to the unsavory aspects of politicking, would find some scheme to extricate his son and heir from what he would see as the machinations of a pretentious upstart.

 

“Come in and sit down, son,” Lucius said from next to the fireplace. Firelight glimmered and flickered, throwing his profile into sharp contrast. His hair appeared to glow like the moon on one side in the darkness and burn like gold on the opposite side. Lucius Malfoy affected the hairstyle of the last century, favoring his long hair tied into a queue. Only two years ago had he assented to stop powdering his white-blond hair.

 

Draco moved closer and accepted a glass of brandy from his father. He tasted it, remarking that it was a vintage not from their London address. Undoubtedly brought from their endless vaults in Wiltshire.

 

“Do you know why I’m in Town, Draco?” His father’s voice was conversational, but Draco was not fooled.

 

“No.” Briefly, his thoughts flickered to a heart-shaped face with large, round eyes. Then he shut his mind to anything but the man sitting before him.

 

“There’s talk of an invasion into France,” Lucius said, looking towards the fireplace rather than at Draco.

 

Draco had heard. It was all that had been discussed in White’s, on the streets, and in every newspaper. If it were supposed to be a secret, it was a poorly kept one. Then, there was the fact that the Prussians and Russians had sent high-ranking people into England for “negotiations.”

 

Lucius nodded, apparently seeing something in Draco’s face that confirmed his guesses. “Your cousin, Potter, has knowledge of specifics. He himself is Wellington’s envoy. I assume you know this as well?”

 

Draco did not, though he was well aware of his cousin’s miraculous ascension through the ranks. And now that he thought of it, he had assumed Harry Potter would have been out celebrating his elevated status, instead of currying favor with the foreigners. Lord, he hated the man, not least of which was due to the fact that the man, a poor relation, had been able to buy colours courtesy of Lucius’ allowance and rise so quickly and so high under Wellington’s personal command.

 

Once upon a time, it had been Draco’s dream to also ride in the calvary. Unfortunately, every family member soon disabused him of that fanciful notion or any intention of anything resembling employment.

 

“It is imperative,” his father was saying slowly and evenly, “that you get close to Potter and find out those plans. Do you understand me?”

 

With his father, most questions were rhetorical. Draco understood, and yet he did not. For years, he had been warned away from doing anything political or of use. Now, he was being asked to cosy up to a cousin that he hated with a passion and uncover information? Draco didn’t know whether to be enthused or insulted.

 

“It is of utmost importance to the state of the union,” his father now emphasised, staring him intently from under dark brows.

 

“Is he a spy for the French?” Draco’s question was almost flippant.

 

“Very possibly.” His father’s grave response surprised him.  “That is why we need to know whether those plans he carries are indeed Wellington’s express command. Potter carries them with him night and day. You’ll be able to find them in his coat, which you’ll divest as soon as he’s under the table. After, oh, shall we say, a night on the town?”

 

There was something in his father’s smirk that was an echo of Draco’s own when he looked in the mirror. In the light of the fire, his father easily looked twenty years younger, a handsome devil who had been much admired at court. Tonight, he was requesting specific help from Draco, and Draco found it hard to refuse. Especially when it meant that his arch-enemy would be revealed for a traitor. How glorious that would be, when for years, Harry Potter’s every heroic action had been rubbed into his face, his every action blessed by all the fates while Draco was left to simmer in his gilded cage.

 

Then, of course, Potter had requested to enter the army, and Draco had simply hoped for the war to carry him off.

 

“Yes, of course I understand, father. Anything for England.” Draco’s smile was dry and one-sided.

 

His father stood. He stood. Lucius clapped his son on the shoulder, more jovial than he had been since the conversation started. “Good lad. And, son,” Lucius said, turning to him in a conspiratorial fashion. “Once we have those plans, we’ll see about more freedom in the reins for you, shall we?”

 

Draco almost didn’t know what to say. To be able to manage one of the estates his father kept such an iron hold over. Or be able to take over one of the pocket burroughs like that other rising young politician, Henry Brougham, he whose passionate articles roused such fervour in his followers. Or, perhaps—even free reign in choosing a spouse. It was a favor being requested of him, and one that would be amply rewarded.

 

Draco nodded, casting his eyes down to keep his excitement to himself.

 

The next morning, when he was getting ready to make calls for the day, he received a surprise at the breakfast table.

 

“What's this?” Draco asked his butler.

 

“It was delivered earlier this morning, sir, with this note.”

 

Draco stared down at the decorative centerpiece in the middle of his dining table. It was a small but elaborate castle made of glazed marzipan and dotted with sugar plums and candied fruit. There was even a little blond-haired soldier on a horse. A sealed envelope sat propped on one side, addressed to him in a feminine hand.

 

_Dear Mr. Malfoy,_

 

_Please accept this with my sincerest apologies for depriving you of what was clearly a much needed treat in addition to causing you to be thrown from your horse. I beg you will enjoy this confection and hope you shall forgive a clodhopper her provincial ways. Would that this offering makes amends and settles the debt between us._

 

_Regards,_

_Miss H. Granger_

 

He sat staring at the note for a very long time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco Malfoy decides on a goal.

 

 

It was customary for gentlemen to send flowers or call on the women they had danced with the evening before. Draco dispatched a bouquet of flowers to Pansy and went to call on Miss Granger.

 

The Grangers resided in a rented townhouse on Curzon Street, a surprisingly modish address. Equally surprising was the presence of one Harry Potter.

 

As was usual, Draco’s mouth, which usually formed charming smiles, turned itself into a sneer when he saw his cousin. Then, with supreme effort, he recalled his father’s edict and schooled his expression into neutrality instead.

 

“Well,” a feminine voice spoke from behind him. “I hadn’t expected to see you here, trying for her hand in marriage.”

 

Draco turned slowly to see the red-headed girl from the circulating library, staring curiously at him but without animosity. “I am here to pay to my respects.”

 

“As are they all,” the redhead replied, gesturing at the flowers that decorated the parlor.

 

Draco looked around carefully for the first time and noted the profusion of flowers placed in vases around the room and the four men who were in the room. He almost scowled again as he noted the presence of the Prussian Lieutenant-Colonel _aide-de-camp_ Viktor von Krum next to Harry Potter and Henry Brougham. The fourth man was a redheaded man unknown to Draco.

 

“Please, allow me.” The redheaded girl smiled and moved forward gracefully, drawing all the attention in the room to her as she led Draco forward. “This is Harry Potter, Henry Brougham, our very illustrious Viktor von Krum. And this is my brother, Captain Ronald Weasley. Gentlemen, may I present the Honorable Mr. Draco Malfoy.”

 

Draco gave a tight nod to Harry Potter, shook the hand of Henry Brougham and Viktor von Krum, and almost froze upon the introduction of the fourth party.

 

It was stiff competition indeed. Of the four in the room, Draco was the only one who was not enlisted in the greatest war in their lifetime. Already the decisive last battle fought on the continent was being hailed as the Battle of the Nations. Draco had read the news in the papers with a certain twinge in his chest—momentous things were happening, and he had not been able to see firsthand any of it. Not that he now believed himself capable of heroism, after being so long deprived of any useful endeavour.

 

The Prussian was making no secret of his fascination with Miss Granger, standing very close to her and staring at her openly with deep-set dark eyes set alongside a long, hooked nose.

 

Captain Weasley was very clearly a man of the sea, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a sunburnt, freckled nose, and deep laugh lines set on his face. He looked affable and boisterous and had been engaged in rather loud conversation before Draco had been introduced. If he had not been enlisted in the navy, Draco could picture him as a Corinthian, one of those fellows whose sartorial aim was to imitate grooms. He was the only man in the room whose cravat was tied in the simplest manner, that of the Mathematical, and it was haphazardly done, and his boots bore scuff marks from whence the shining had been done rather roughly. He was also holding a tea cake in his hand as he spoke.

 

Henry Brougham was a person Draco often encountered out and about in town, although the man was most decidedly a Whig in political persuasion and thus was a political enemy of the Malfoys. He was a young and rising star in the House of Commons, so identified on account of his speeches, although Draco had never considered him as being particularly quick-witted without written notes of some kind. In fact, the cloddish impression of him increased as Draco caught the look of hero worship in his eyes as Brougham stared at Harry Potter.

 

Harry Potter was the fourth man in the room and the only one Draco could own as a rival. His appearance in Draco’s life stemmed earliest from the passing of a third cousin originally next in line. Born within only months of each other, the two of them had attended Eton and then Cambridge together, respectively running in very different crowds. The differences between the two of them grew more marked as the years passed. Harry Potter seemed to fribble money away like water and preferred to go roistering with his boisterous friends than to attend to his studies, which were funded mainly on Malfoy generosity. Despite being sent down from school every other month, Harry Potter had a talent for making friends in high places, witness his current position as the personal chief of staff to Wellington himself. Draco resented him more than he could say, for coming out smelling like a rose when all he ever did was stir up trouble.

 

“Malfoy,” Potter now said, stepping forward and holding out a hand. His tone was civil, but his green eyes issued a challenge. “I didn’t realise you were acquainted with our Hermione.”

 

“Likewise.” Draco’s response was every bit as outwardly pleasant as he shook his cousin’s hand. “ _Our_ Hermione?” He turned toward the subject in question, looking at her fully for the first time since he arrived.

 

There was no accounting for the way Miss Hermione Granger seemed to get prettier every time he saw her. Today, he was hard-pressed to find fault with the cloud of brown curls that formed around her head, and the pale blue dress that covered her from her wrists all the way up to her jawline. There was no expression on her face, but her throat moved as she swallowed. Her eyes traveled from him to Harry without blinking and then she smiled—at Harry. “Yes, well, Harry and I have known each other for ages.”

 

Draco didn’t quite know how to take that news. It seemed that there was yet another something else he had to resent his cousin for. Yet another something that his cousin had taken from him, quite without Draco knowing that it was anything he particularly wanted.

 

“Of course,” he managed to say. Draco was surprised his voice sounded so smooth; it felt as though a frog had taken up permanent residence in his throat. Perhaps he was sickening with something. “Shall we expect the banns to be read any time soon?”

 

Usually, he was far more urbane. Usually, he didn’t let slip the secret thoughts of his heart. Luckily, his tone sounded more snide than congratulatory.

 

“They’ve already been read,” Miss Weasley said from behind him. She stepped forward and latched onto Potter’s arm, and Draco watched as his cousin looked at her as though there were no one else in the room with them. The redhead didn’t notice as she smiled back at Draco. There was something kind or conspiratorial in her eyes; Draco couldn’t decide. Either way, out of everyone in the room, she was being the least guarded with him. “We’ll be getting married in the spring.”

 

Draco’s eyes fell then to the ring on her hand. It was a sapphire; not a large one, but the colour was very fine. “Congratulations.” He felt as though he had been dealt a blow. He felt almost light-hearted with relief. His eyes sneaked back over to Miss Granger, who stared straight back at him.

 

Then, before anyone could say anything else, Draco decided to say what he had come to say. “I’ve come to request Miss Granger’s company to Gunter’s for an ice.”

 

The captain chuckled as though he had made a fine joke. “Deuced cold outside! Hermione doesn’t like ices in the wintertime. Do you, m’dear?” He had a booming voice with Lancashire accents. Draco hated him at once.

 

She blinked twice at the captain and then turned resolutely to Draco and smiled in a manner more determined than sweet. “Of course, Mr. Malfoy. Let me just get my wrap.” Later, Draco could only attribute her agreement as a tacit rebuttal to the opportune commentary by a man who was apparently not her fiance.

 

And then she proceeded from the room with Miss Weasley in tow, leaving behind a dazed Prussian Lieutenant-Colonel, a baffled captain who muttered “wonder what’s wound her up this time,” and a Harry Potter who turned to resolutely engage in conversation with Henry Brougham.

 

Draco had expected to wait upwards of an hour. He resigned himself to small talk with the other gentlemen.

 

“A surprising time for you to return from the Peninsula,” Draco observed to Potter. In fact, it was an odd time for the Prussian to be here as well, with all the armies held in abeyance after the Battle of the Nations.

 

“Not particularly.” Potter’s voice was just as even, his response just as noncommittal. “The war is all but won. We have Napoleon completely surrounded.”

 

Draco might not have been enlisted in the army, but he kept his ear to the ground, and he was aware that the Prussian looked far less confident than his cousin. The Prussians had been engaged in one losing battle after the next until they had all but conceded to the French. They had then gone behind the French’s back to approach the Russians for help. With the Russian tsar’s support, Napoleon had finally relinquished all lands east of the Rhine, his first defeat on the continent since he came of power, although it was a very near miss at that.

 

And Potter seemed so very definite, so very sure of Napoleon’s downthrow—surely he could not be a spy for the French? Draco had never figured his cousin for any sort of an actor—a rogue, a ne’er-do-well, but never a charlatan. But as always, he would have to defer to his father; the baron always seemed to know more than was possible.

 

“I’m ready for that ice, Mr. Malfoy,” said the voice of Miss Granger, and Draco turned to find that she was indeed dressed to go out for a sedate carriage ride around Town in a fashionable military-styled pelisse with a little fur muff and a smart wide-brimmed hat tipped rakishly over one eye.

 

For the first time since he had seen her this week, it occurred to him that she might have been spruced up by her friend, the dashing Miss Weasley. For whose benefit was it? For the Captain? Or the Prussian? Draco was left with some very deflating thoughts, least of which that his cordial reception was for the benefit of some other suitors.

 

With a sad wave from the Lieutenant-Colonel, an overly courteous bow from Mr. Brougham, affectionate farewells from Potter and the redheaded girl, and an obliviously cheerful comment from the captain, they were out of the townhouse and in the street, where Draco’s tiger had the curricle and horses trotting back around for them.

 

Once ensconced in the carriage with hot bricks and thick furs, Draco picked up the reins and they were off at a very slow pace. At this rate, they would reach Gunter’s never, and that was surprisingly all right for him.

 

After a few polite comments about the weather (treacherous) and the passersby (numerous), they fell silent.

 

Then, “Did you receive my parcel?” Miss Granger asked abruptly.

 

Draco paused before answering. “I did.”

 

There was no immediate response and Draco ventured a sideways glance. She was mulling over his unexplained affirmative and had a little furrow between her brows and her bottom lip had been drawn in ‘twixt her teeth. He hid a smile before he faced forward again.

 

“Then, I’m puzzled as to why you called. Was the marzipan not satisfactory?”

 

She really was the most forthright woman he knew. “It was delicious,” he lied. He actually had it placed in his rooms, where it stood on his table.

 

There was fidgeting next to him. “May I speak plainly?”

 

Heaven help his nerves if she were even more blunt than she already was. “You may.”

 

“I must confess that I’m really quite baffled as to your visit this morning. Usually gentlemen are not accustomed to calling on women they don’t perceive as being—well, marriageable.”

 

He deflected her question as skillfully as he would have parried a riposte. “Have I said aught as to your marriageability?”

 

This time, when he looked at her, she was staring straight back at him. There was no fluttering of fans around her face, no shying away from a direct gaze, and no simpering or blushing. It was a meeting of equals, only of course she was not quite as eligible as he was.

 

Of course she wasn’t. That wasn’t his purpose here. On the other hand, he had never been more entertained by a lady before in his life.

 

“No, but… Your views on persons of my—background—are very clear to everyone. You have made no secret of your disdain of the Trade, and I cannot at all fathom your continuing to seek me out when you clearly despise everything that I am.” This time, her hand emerged from the muff to give a small feminine flutter as though she couldn’t quite put her thoughts into words, which was quite a change from her usual self-possession. “I realise myself that I lack many of the graces and feminine arts that are so prized by your sort, which makes your attention even more inexplicable.”

 

Her speech gave him pause. He had never felt the need to reassure another human being, and the feeling was utterly foreign to him. Nor was it in him to give sincere compliments, and so he remained silent.

 

“Furthermore,” she continued, staring straight forward now, presenting him with her small profile. “From your questions the other day, I assume that you do not have—honourable intentions, and I most assuredly will not entertain that sort of offer, even were I so inclined.”

 

He leaped on the phrasing. “Even were you _inclined_? And are you so inclined, Miss Granger?”

 

She was blushing, flustered, her full lips pressed into a thin line. “You know what I meant!”

 

The horses continued to move down the street, blurry with the dense fog. Draco directed them with only half of his attention, a dangerous proposition indeed. His tiger stood behind them, every so often dropping his haughty demeanour to hoot at flickering torches held by passersby. In the dense, wet fog, they heard voices but saw only fuzzy figures, as though they were separated by a curtain from everyone else in the world.

 

Draco reflected that he had no honourable intentions to offer, not when he did not know what exactly he wanted to profess. He was not, in the normal scheme of things, accustomed to offering for a lady. Presumably, one met with the father first, lawyers got involved, and he—he had to obtain approval from his parents.

 

Not that he would ever entertain such a thing.

 

He changed the subject instead. “You seem very close with my relative. Harry Potter.”

 

He was watching her closely and saw the moment she blinked, her momentum on the previous subject lost. “You—You’re asking me about my relationship with your cousin?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I—” She shook her head. “Yes, of course. We have known each other for years and years. In Manchester, you know.”

 

“I assumed so. And he has spoken of me?” Somehow he just had to know if his cousin had been as heroic as all made him out to be and kept from bad-mouthing him, or just as petty as Draco himself could be and had been poisoning every other ear with defamatory tidbits of him.

 

Miss Granger flushed and looked away. “He has mentioned a few things, yes.”

 

“My reputation precedes me?” Draco drawled, effecting calm although the anger in his chest felt white-hot. “What picture has he painted of me, of a villain who thwarts his every will, who stands between him and the Malfoy fortune?”

 

“Harry has never spoken of your fortune!” she broke in. “But he has spoken of how you have carried numerous tales of him and had him sent down from Eton and Cambridge—”

 

“A rule-breaker such as he would have been sent down even without such reports,” Draco now sneered, feeling justified in his hatred of his cousin, smug about Potter’s lack of heroism when it came to gossip, and angry that this girl should be so influenced by secondhand talk. “We’ve all been wrong about him; a rule-breaker such as he would sell out his country if it benefited him!”

 

She looked shocked at his accusation; a moment later, angered. “Harry would never do such a thing!”

 

“I myself have had considerable reports about his doings,” he sneered. “From an unimpeachable source.”

 

At his vehemence, Miss Granger blinked and fell back against the seat cushions. “I cannot believe it of him. He is a hero.”

 

“You are surrounded by a battalion of heroes.” There was that old familiar vein of bitterness as he acknowledged this fact. “Should it be so surprising if one turned out to not quite as noble as everyone believes him to be?”

 

Miss Granger shrugged. “Not surprising in the least. As you’ve undoubtedly noticed, my family is very patriotic. My father collects heroes; prefers them above all else.”

 

“A merchant who’s not a Shylock? Has the world come to an end?” Draco was half mocking and half serious.

 

“I have known Harry for years and years,” Miss Granger said, ignoring his comment. “He does not have it in him to lie.”

 

“We can all be surprised by those close to us.” Draco was unwilling to back down. He tamped down on his own doubts as to Potter’s ability to dissemble. _Not like your father_ , a voice whispered. Lucius Malfoy was a politician of the first order, a man who maneuvered the tricky, venom-filled waters with the greatest of ease. Many had been the time when he had convincingly stated one thing in public only to evince the opposite sentiment at home.

 

In fact, Draco could not help but recall Lucius Malfoy’s unerring admiration of Napoleon Bonaparte. “A remarkable general,” his father had said, poring over the reports with an eyeglass. “See how he escapes them all.”

 

And then when Napoleon was made emperor: “He will rise even higher. He does great things for Paris, lights and clean water. They are even now calling it the City of Lights.”

 

And then after the disastrous campaign into Russia: “Never fear; he will run circles around them all.”

 

Lucius Malfoy had spoken as though he were in a world completely removed from battle against Napoleon, as though his citizenship were not in a country united with others to utterly destroy Napoleon’s every last legacy.

 

Something in Draco chilled.

 

He swallowed and shook his head to disperse those disturbing thoughts. He was turning paranoid with the turn of conversation; his father would never betray his country, not when he had so much to gain through his loyalty to the Crown. “You speak of heroes? Does your father only approve of a war hero for you then?”

 

“He does, and so—you must see that…” Miss Granger gave him a quick sideways glance before sighing and shaking her head a bit. It was over in a second, but still, Draco could see that she was not completely indifferent to him.

 

“Miss Granger—”

 

She cut him off. “Ginny—that’s Miss Weasley—tells me that Ron will propose to me on Valentine’s Day.” She addressed her comment at her muff. He looked too. Her small hands were out in the cold air, rotating the little fur over and over in her lap.

 

There was something encouraging about the sight of those uncertain looking hands. It was something strong enough to compel him to jerk on the reins of the horses, causing the carriage to rumble to an awkward stop, the inexpert likes of which would have ashamed him at any other time. He could hear the tiger in the back of the curricle shouting at another carriage driver behind them. They all seemed a million miles away, invisible and distant in the nebulous air.

 

“ _Don’t accept him._ ” His unexpectedly hard words were rasped in the direction of her hands, to the thin kid gloves that offered her scant protection in the frosty air. Really, it was a terrible time to be out and about.

 

Her eyes jerked up, warm, dark marzipan with a hint of glazed caramel. He froze in its endless depths. “I—it’s all but decided.” She looked confused and torn, so he decided to add to her bewilderment.

 

“Don’t marry him.” He had tried to sound flippant, but the words seemed to be ripped from his chest. He tried harder: “Surely, there’s a better prospect for you than that.”

 

She looked somewhat amused at his words. The corners of her eyes crinkled, and her lips lifted encouragingly at the ends. “How generous of you! Someone like you, I suppose.”

 

“Oh, at least.” There was a teasing edge to his voice that sounded almost tender, even to his own horrified ears. He didn’t know what he was saying anymore. The cold was permeating his brain-box, befuddling his senses. And yet, he didn’t retract his words or what they meant.

 

Her smile fell away. “We—I don’t even know you. We’ve met but a few times. You despise people like me. You've been nothing but condescending and boorish.”

 

He felt a plummeting sensation in the pit of his stomach. “Nothing but a fop, eh?”

 

She considered her words and spoke carefully. “I don't mean to disparage you. It's only that...it is foolhardy—”

 

“And you never take chances, do you,” he said rhetorically, although his heart beat in time to his words. “Not for foundlings or for drowned animals.”

 

This time, her eyes flickered over his face with a slightly curious expression. “You could never resemble a drowned animal or a foundling, not even if you fell in the Thames.”

 

There was a compliment in there somewhere, but Draco knew when to stop pressing his luck. They had been gone for half an hour, although they traversed but a few streets in the dangerous murky atmosphere. The captain had been right; it was no time for an ice, not when the ground was covered with the stuff itself and when it was becoming so difficult to see that he had a hard time making out the outlines of his horses. To press on would be foolhardy. Word had it the Prince Regent himself had taken four hours to cross Mayfair the other evening and one of his outriders had suffered a collision in the process.

 

He executed a turn in the narrow streets to the shouts of his tiger and a near accident with a drayman lumbering past in the opposite direction. "I should take you back, Miss Granger. Much as I hate to admit it, this outing was a terrible idea. We've suffered nearly five run-ins in this fog."

 

Some part of him wanted her to resist, but her brow was furrowed with the strain of making out things in the distance and her lips looked pinched against the cold air. "I much appreciated the chance of an outing. A later time, perhaps," she said, and he hoped earnestly that she was not just being polite.

 

When next he spoke, he pointed out humourous inanities about the weather as they retraced their steps. There were no more contentious words about the state of the union or treachery in the barracks as he shared details of the last Frost Fair. She had never attended one as large as the one held on the Thames. All the while he spoke, his heart pounded out a separate refrain—that his next goal must be to reform himself into a hero.

 

The wherefores of such a goal he put aside for now. Surely it was enough for him to want to carry out his father’s strange but intriguing edict. And to want to be a hero, surely that was no bad thing in this era of unending warfare. 

 

It really had no connection with this girl at all. Not in the least.

 

The quandary was, Draco Malfoy had no idea where to begin.

 

**AN: This story has been nominated for Best Fluff! If you'd like to vote for it, please go here:[Vote!](https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/18gf1jjpihRCnrrbTHPC25JlLtuBM53pE?usp=sharing)**

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